Black
by CognacGirl-CG
Summary: The color of her life.
1. Chapter 1

**As Pitch**

Wittenberg

_"__Sydney__, you were never supposed to have found this."_

Those words, words that to her disappointment didn't immediately reveal the joke was on her, or that this was all some kind of mistake or fabrication, made that sinking feeling inside her bottom out with a solid _thunk_. Abruptly shoving away from the table, Sydney stood up to face him. Just knowing that he was here – had followed her on this private trip to Wittenberg – was shocking, but then that shock began to wane and confusion reigned.

Her own father?

The sound of the straight-backed chair screeching across smooth marble still faintly echoed in her ears. Forming within her, similar to that raucous sound, was a silent scream – an internal outburst that did a great job of fueling her anger. She didn't want to believe the clearly typed words, didn't want to believe what those words meant about him. There was no way he could have done this to her. No way.

But the longer she looked into his eyes and watched the faint glimmer of uneasiness that began to vanish the longer she stared, the quicker the implied meaning of the words on all those pages sank in.

_Oh God_.

She did her best to stand sturdily before him, challenging him with both her steeled stance and a pointed, impervious glare to deny what he'd done. Yet she knew that overshadowing the strong front she showed was her traitorous, tearstained face.

Heat from the upcoming confrontation brewed dangerously in the room, thick, electric. It only grew stronger as the documentation of each of her thirty-plus-years replayed in her head: Documentation started by the CIA on the day of her birth – with complete authorization of her father.

Everything had been a lie. He was the liar.

Black and blatant, and suddenly so heavy in her shaky hand, she thrust out the glaring evidence of yet another betrayal by a loved one, another betrayal by _him_. Funny how often various forms of duplicity seemed to stand between her and the ones she loved.

"You," came out of her mouth sounding almost like a croak. It was all she could say.

Quick, angry strides brought her within a few feet of him, and she found her empty fist clenched tightly at her side in an attempt to keep from using it to give back some of this pain that surged through her. A fresh sheen of tears gathered in her accusing eyes, making his blurry image shimmer and distort like a disturbed reflection in water. He seemed so tall now, almost looming before her, and the monochrome black he chose to wear suddenly seemed quite appropriate.

_Betrayer_.

"How could you do this?" she asked, furiously snapping the offending pages at him in a jerky motion. The comforting eyes of her father had morphed from rich coffee to hard smoky quartz – stone, cold – suddenly much less familiar than the last time she had looked into them.

"Sydney –" he began, but his pointless response became lost as a dull thudding besieged her head. What he was about to say meant nothing now – it was nothing new. Justifications of past betrayals had grown so tiresome. Forgiveness for those betrayals even more so.

"This is _my_ _life_ you're dabbling in! Not yours. Not Rambaldi's. And sure as hell not the CIA's," she whispered harshly. "You had no right to do this. All of you. All of _this_. I'm not some damn experiment or some number on a case file that needs updating when an event occurs, I'm a human being!"

Incredulity swirled inside her – roiling and volcanic. The questions that came to mind were endless. How could he have known about the prophecy back in 1975? Who else had been privy to it? How could he have just sat by, even encouraged the CIA to keep such close tabs on his own flesh and blood? How could he have fooled her all this time with such meticulously crafted reactions to her discoveries of prophecies, of missing years, and of unknown siblings?

He'd known about them all along.

The pain of it all was absolutely excruciating; the hurt suffused her insides like potent, rapid dispersing poison. The tumult of humiliation and anger, and the violation brought on by the total disregard for her privacy, slowly stripped her bare before him.

He'd seen her like this before. The last time it had happened, they were outside a restaurant and it was raining.

His face was now an implacable mask and it hit her for the first time in years, since she discovered her part in Project Christmas, how little she knew this man – her father.

Swallowing the bile rising in her throat, she pushed past him, clutching the papers to her chest as she ran for the elevator without even a look back. Her trembling hand slapped at the button for the main floor repeatedly – only when the doors slid open and she saw the familiar posh décor of the main floor did the motion stop.

The nice gentleman who had helped her access the safety deposit box earlier smiled as he saw her emerge. He took two steps toward her with unheard words spilling from his mouth. The smile she returned was wide, her eyes empty, and she nodded in a motion that was more absent than courteous as he took her key.

He turned his back for a moment, still speaking to her, but before he could turn back she was running again – out of the building, through the swarm of people littering the avenue to find her rental.

She missed the perplexed look on the man's face when he found her gone…

Driving through the busy streets of Wittenberg on autopilot.

Running through the crowded airport to reach her gate in time for the next flight out.

Gone.

She was in L.A. many hours later with barely a recollection of how she got there.

**And Blue**

After passing through the extensive security check at the door, Sydney took a deep breath of stale hospital air and finally, hesitantly, stepped into the room. The door latched behind her, and as two gazes turned her way, saw her face for the first time in days, it happened.

A jerky gasp shook his gauzed chest, the sudden motion making him cry out in pain. The once all too friendly eyes now showed a spark of fear, fear that was only intensified by the way those eyes had widened.

His wife's hand had reached out, a cool attempt to cover his forearm before he tensed, but it was already too late. Holding her husband's hand, the woman offered a smile that was tender and placating; her eyes held mostly warmth as she looked at Sydney. But hidden in the depths of those warm eyes was a tinge of wariness, a flicker of dual concern for her husband and the woman who had just entered.

This wasn't easy for anyone.

He released the breath he sucked in upon her entrance in a ragged gust, mustering up enough energy to give both women an apologetic smile that bordered on a grimace.

He'd probably have nightmares about her for weeks. She certainly wouldn't blame him.

Tears pricked Sydney's eyes like fine slivers, but the uncomfortable sensation faded quickly. "Hi Marshall," she said in a voice that sounded like someone else. Someone content.

The flowers in her hand felt more like stone and brick – _gun and bullet_ – as she walked to the table on the far side of the room. She placed the crystalline vase she was holding amongst the litter of flowers and teddy bears dressed like their new owner in black suits and crisp white shirts with various tech toys.

The longer her back was turned, the harder it became to face them again. She put on a smile and turned.

"So I hear y –"

"They say I'm –"

The laughter between them was forced, stunted. Awkward.

Sydney stutter-stepped forward a little, testing him; nervously curling her hair behind her ear, she moved closer. Stopping at the foot of the bed, she placed a hand on the soft yellow blanket covering him. It was as close as she could seem to get.

He swallowed hard, entwining his fingers with his wife's. "Three weeks, they tell me."

She nodded.

"Who knows how long I'll be in physical therapy after," he added in a strained, slightly dejected voice. "Probably a few months."

His despondency hurt. In her heart she knew that she, herself, was not responsible for his condition, but the tight hand squeezing that same muscle didn't seem to realize that. Part of her was waiting for him to add on a joke, something about the bad food he'd be eating once he could take solids again or some intimate procedure the doctors had forced on him. That would be like him.

But instead, he flinched in pain again. She watched him depress the button on the device held in his free hand to release a fresh stream of painkiller into his system. A deep sigh of relief started his eventual succumbing, and she saw his eyelids flutter and droop.

"Thank you for coming," Carrie whispered when his eyes finally shut, smoothing her hand up and down his arm. "He's had a rough couple of days, but I know he appreciates you showing up. Please, anytime you want to stop by – do. It'll be good for him."

She nodded again, offering a semblance of a smile before turning to leave.

"See you at the office, Sydney."

The steady buzz of hospital in the daytime drowned out her quiet and pain-filled response.

"Sure."

**Listed**

The faces around the table were all familiar. Close friend, former partner and now mentor, past and could have been present lover… betrayer.

She met eyes with three out of those four, wondering briefly if one of the three were privy to the doings of the fourth. Days ago, she would have thought that idea ridiculous, but today…

His gaze on her was fierce, penetrating, likely frustrated after being kept out of the loop on the subject matter of this surprise meeting. It didn't go unnoticed that she purposely skipped over those eyes that look so much like her own, but she didn't care. The others turned curious, perplexed, and would grow even more so once the announcement was made.

Her hands sat neatly folded in front of her on the table, her best attempt at keeping herself solid. Last night had found her a quivering mess – slumped boneless against her bedroom wall, the heels of her hands pressed tightly against her eyes to keep the tears at bay. Today she needed to be strong, to let him know that she would survive this.

No matter what course of action she had to take.

Dixon cleared his throat, requesting the room's undivided attention.

"I have brought this particular circle here to inform you all that Agent Sydney Bristow has formally resigned her active position with the CIA. Effective immediately, she will become a civilian."

The room stirred with the startling announcement, all heads turning toward her in a mixture of shock and confusion. She forced her eyes to stay fixed on their leader as he finished.

"I have allowed Agent Bristow the courtesy of staying for this announcement, but since there is some sensitive information that requires our immediate attention, I am now forced to ask her to leave."

A faint smile was on her face as she stood. Questions formed but were held on their tongues. If the utter shock in their eyes said anything it was that explanations were wanted, some thought they were due. But she had no energy to offer any half-truths, so she remained silent.

Doing the best and only thing she could, she gathered her remaining things and moved quietly to the door. Accomplishing that feat with no complications, all she needed to do now was to keep walking until she made it to the parking garage. Simple, she told herself.

But as she reached the door, she heard the rustle of clothing sound out from behind her. Her eyes fell closed and the accompanying slide of a chair sent chills up her spine. Part of her had expected it, had badly wanted it, but most of her had hoped he would just leave it alone.

"Agent Vaughn," Dixon's commanding voice resonated in the sudden stark silence. "You will remain in this room for the rest of the meeting."

Even though her back was to him, she could feel his hesitation like a palpable being. She could just imagine the fight brewing within him – telling him first to go after her, then in the next thought telling him to stay and do his duty. It was a dance she knew too well.

Making the decision for him, she exited the room without a last glance, leaving behind the friend, the mentor, the lover… and most of all, the betrayer.

It was better that way.

**Obsidian**

The sun was just about to drop out of sight as she secured the main compartment of her suitcase with a tiny lock. Some of her anxiety was released in a shaky breath at the light clicking sound.

She was actually leaving.

Smoothing her hand over the tough black vinyl, knowing that what was in this case would have to last her for months, Sydney reiterated to herself how important this was.

Leaving the CIA under the guise of getting some normalcy back in her life was her first step; her second step would abuse her real passport. Places like London, Versailles, Acapulco, Venice… her itinerary would carry her through at least the next three months.

It was time that she would surely need.

A dull pain sat heavy in her chest when the looks on the faces occupying that room two days ago flashed behind her closed eyes. There would be so much, so many she would miss, but there was a greater importance to what she'd chosen to do – a very personal objective in mind.

Her reasons were justified.

_You can't fulfill prophecies this way,_ was one them.

_No one would care to document the details of your life, _was another.

_You can't hurt your friends or your lovers; family can't betray you._

Especially if she chose not to have any.

Thinking about the last few days and the decisions she'd made had left her uneasy. She dropped down on her mattress, crestfallen, and listened to the anomaly of rain pelting against her roof for countless minutes. As she was falling back to curl up on her side the phone rang – the prompt timing made her hesitate to answer. The tripping of her heart escalated as she checked the caller ID. She'd ignored his many calls over the past few days, but at this point, she was nearly starving just to hear his voice.

Her hand reached for the phone and brought it to her ear.

"Sydney," he said on a sigh, before she even said hello. "Please, just talk to me."

She shook her head no in answer, her voice not cooperating with the action. She cleared her throat of the gathered lump. "I can't, Vaughn," she replied weakly. "It's too complicated now. I need to be alone to sort things out."

"What's so complicated?" he asked with a hint of incredulity in his voice. "To me everything seems much simpler now. What's changed, Sydney? How can I fix this if you won't tell me?"

Too many questions she couldn't answer right now.

"There's no simple fix to this." She paused, then whispered, "I have to go."

"No, Syd. Wait –"

A trembling hand placed the phone back in its cradle; she brought the same hand to her mouth to mute a sob, then used it to cover her face as she cried.

The tears had barely stopped when she heard a knock at her front door. Opening the drawer in her nightstand, she removed the single house key and took it with her. Eric was early – he'd said he would stop by after his nightly workout – but at least now she could just go to sleep.

Her socks silenced her steps across the hardwood floor, and she opened the door without hesitation.

_Vaughn._

His hair was drenched, matted in uneven clumps on his head. His cheeks were mottled red and his breath sounded heavy and rough like he'd been running for miles. Drops of water fell to the ground from the top of his head, his nose, his chin. She squeezed her hands into fists, barely able to refrain from using them to help dry him off. The stubble coating his jaw told her what the last few days had been like for him. The dark circles shading underneath his eyes told her about his nights.

Sharp green stared back at her, barely noticing the wet clothing clinging to his body or her lack thereof – her bathrobe hiding just a pair of cotton shorts and a tank top. She shook her head no, exactly as she had when he'd asked to talk to her on the phone, but he didn't waver. She moved to shut him out, but a strong hand palmed it open and he pushed himself inside.

"You wouldn't talk to me."

"You need to go, Vaughn."

"I can't. God, I can't." He ran both his hands through his hair, slicking the short strands back. "You leave the CIA without saying good-bye and then Weiss tells me you're leaving the country?"

Tears tangled in her lashes, but she was determined to keep them from falling again. Nothing he could say would change her mind on this. With her arms across her chest, she lifted her chin and tried to keep up the cool, confident façade.

"I'm leaving tomorrow."

"When are you going to be back?"

"I don't know."

"Damn it, Sydney!"

The terseness lacing his words and the abrupt manner in which he furrowed a hand through his hair only enhanced the barely contained violence she could sense in him. His gaze raked over her, fierce, deliberate, finally noticing her state of undress. By the time his gaze reached her eyes again his expression had visibly softened.

He sighed tiredly. "Has so much happened that I mean that little to you now?"

Oh, he meant so much more, she thought as the first few pieces of her front began to crumble to the ground, but not as much as trying to get the CIA off her back and her life back in control. She looked at him, seeing the anguish and the hurt, the worry over not knowing what he needed to do to make her stay.

He stood in a growing pool of water and waited for her response. How could she tell him anything without smearing his father's good name?

He was not like his father – that much she was relatively sure of. His name was not directly associated with those documents, unlike William Vaughn's. He'd never had a hand in deceiving her, he didn't play a part in this prophecy – not that she knew of. And it only took that hint of doubt to solidify what she'd set in motion.

But before she could tell him to go, he surprised her by closing the distance separating them. His fingers curled tightly in her hair, forcing her to look at him, to see the intensity of his shattering gaze.

"Sydney," he whispered. An ache. It sounded that way. An ache that caused her undoing.

Her stomach clenched and warmed in reaction to his voice, his touch. It was an unfamiliar sensation after days of unbearable cold. Tremors shook her hand in answer to that ache as she brushed fingers over his cold, stubbly cheek.

_Maybe_ _just one last time._

Before she could complete the thought, she was in his arms; their lips were touching, mouths moving roughly, opening to immediately seek something more intimate. His tongue swept into her mouth possessively, as if he were reclaiming lost ground, as if he were reminding her that no matter how much time had passed, no matter how much he had put her through and vice versa, she belonged to him.

He lifted her, her legs automatically wrapping around his waist and squeezing him to her tightly. The friction as she shifted against the front placket of his soaked jeans was both sweet and shocking to a system that had been lacking feeling for days. It made her realize how much she needed this closeness, needed this last night to feel something right again.

"I need you so much," he whispered her exact thought as he stumbled with her to her bedroom.

He sent her packed suitcase tumbling off her bed with the sweep of one hand, while settling her back against the cold sheets with the other. He positioned himself above her, sliding his strong palms beneath her rear and pressing his full weight against her pliant body. Pushing her tank top up as her robe parted, he revealed her belly and the soft curve under her breasts to his wandering mouth. She guided him by his hair as he gently caressed her flesh with soft lips, the short growth in her hands sticking to her like slick, icy fingers.

"Sydney," he groaned, his wet and hot body tighter against her now. Cold and hot. It was an odd combination that felt too good.

What would happen tomorrow faded as clothes disappeared. She melted under his gentle and arousing touch – a thrilling touch that even after all these years seemed familiar. She felt him slide his length into her fully with one thrust, making them both cry out in bliss, then lay still for a few seconds to absorb the heightened, throbbing sensation. His hips started out slow, giving and taking away pleasure in a motion so languid it hurt. But only a few minutes passed before his movements grew more frantic, hard with passion. He panted words of need and utter desperation to have her, to keep her here, into her ear.

"You can't leave me. Not now. Not again," he whispered against her neck, silencing any response she might have given him with his mouth.

Her hips rose to meet each thrust, her arms and legs holding him tighter and tighter as the feeling grew and burned in her body like a wicked, raging fire. Tiny explosions of light burst behind her eyes as he pushed her screaming over the edge. The feverish rush sluicing through her slowly began to soothe the carnal ache his presence brought on as he let himself follow with a guttural yell.

The violent flow consuming her slowly died down; the fire inside her dimmed as normal breathing resumed and their bodies cooled from staggering levels. Holding her hair back from her face with both of his hands, he pressed one last lingering kiss to her lips, then slid off her. His slick body wrapped around her from behind, arms contracting briefly against her belly to tell her that he was not letting her go. She squeezed her eyes shut.

If only it were that easy.

The dark shadow on his chin rubbed along the top of her head in a soothing gesture that in the past would have put her to sleep. He kissed her temple, the curve of her neck, exhaling contentedly as he settled in behind her for the night as easily as he used to. His arms flexed around her body one last time and she could imagine the dreaded accompanying thought.

_She's mine. Things can't be so complicated that this can't work._

But it couldn't. Not right now.

The next morning, in the indentation on her pillow – where her sleepless head lay all night, drinking in his features for a lasting memory – he would find a note.

_I'm sorry, Michael. I can't tell you much more than it has to do with my family. Please, just allow me this time for myself. _

There was no other way it could be.

**Diamond**

The small caravan was right on schedule.

Sydney tucked the binoculars into her pack, her movements slow and easy, careful not to draw the attention of the three ATV's. The late afternoon California sun beat down hotly on her back and the stagnant desert air around her felt as stifling as a primed sauna, but she barely took notice of either. Her eyes merely followed the ATV's as they traveled their planned route, waiting for them to come into range.

Cradling the specially designed rifle on her shoulder, she took aim at the first vehicle and squeezed off four deadly accurate rounds – one shattered window and three targets. _Slump, slump, slump._

Scattered shots zinged though the air in response, the agents in the rear vehicle hitting her hiding spot, angry bees without precision. Shards of rock peppered her masked face and fell harmlessly against her camouflage clothing. She peered through the crosshairs once more, adjusting to compensate for the distance, and then fired off three more shots at the last vehicle.

Six down.

Two remained; the middle vehicle had stopped and the tips of boots barely peeked out from behind the tires. She could imagine their surprise over this ambush. Due to previous failed attempts, the documented route of this prisoner's transfer was in an entirely different direction.

A larger decoy was traveling that route now.

Sydney stumbled down the backside of the jagged hill, bits of loose rock crumbling to dust beneath her moving feet. She could hear them in her mind now, curious about the sudden silence.

Is it safe? Did we get him?

She launched herself, springing agilely from the jut of rock ten feet above ground. Five hurried steps brought her to her awaiting vehicle.

She shifted the Mercedes into gear and punched the gas pedal seconds later, her gun loose and ready in her lap. The soft dirt covering the uncultivated land stirred under her accelerating tires, leaving a dense cloud of dust trailing behind as she rounded the rock formation she had just dropped from and headed toward the deserted highway.

By the time the ATV came into view it was jerking forward, hastily fleeing the scene. Certainly the CIA had heard of the interference by now, and had instructed them to abort with the prisoner to the nearest CIA secured facility. In her estimation, she had only a few minutes to complete this entire thing.

Her Mercedes fishtailed as it attempted to gain purchase on the smooth road at such a high speed. The ATV in full motion, she could barely make out three heads from her distance – the two agents remaining who had sought shelter inside the same vehicle and the man she had come for.

She shifted into third as her speedometer tipped just past 100-MPH, the flawless engine purring where others would obstinately whine and rattle. The ATV came up quickly, accelerating at a rate that was no match for her sleek sports car.

She didn't flinch when the agent on the passenger's side leaned his upper body out the window, letting of a series of shots that ended up sounding like the plink of bouncing hail against the bulletproof glass and body. Sydney sat in the leather bucket seat, calm, relaxed.

One of her hands gripped the leather-wrapped steering wheel tighter as the nose of her car broke even with the rear of the ATV. Her other hand reached for the clip on her passenger seat. With a bit of finesse, she reloaded her weapon in seconds. Her foot flattened the gas pedal to the floor, and she burst past the vehicle like a black blur.

In the rearview as she passed, she saw the two men glance at each other in confusion. If sheer perfection and concentration weren't required to pull this off, she would have probably laughed a little at their perplexed expressions. Instead, when she was a little less than a mile out, she slammed on the brake, cranking the steering wheel to bring her about face.

With the car idling in neutral, the ATV rapidly approached. When her target came into range, she grabbed her gun, crouched in the driver's seat to push up through the open sunroof and let off the last two dead-on shots. The ATV swerved and tipped as the driver worked to keep control of the vehicle with the two front tires she had shot out gradually going flat.

Ducking back inside her car, she swiftly threw the car into reverse, moving backward until the ATV completely lost its fight with the road and careened down a small hill, slamming finally into a wall of rock.

The slight angle in which the ATV was stuck, combined with the flattened tires, made it teeter dangerously to the side. As she stepped from her car with a smaller gun in her hand, she saw the back left tire lifting up. Not waiting to see if it tipped, she ran through the dense cloud of dirt up to the driver's side with her weapon drawn. The back tire safely touched ground again and the driver's side door flew open. The agent inside gripped the door to steady himself as he shakily placed one foot and then the other on the ground.

Head injury, Sydney thought, considering he'd completely forgot protocol and had made himself an easy target in the process.

Her back was flat against the vehicle, and when he faced her, she fired directly into his chest. She held her breath as she stepped over the fallen man and cautiously peeked around the doorframe into the vehicle. The final agent was slumped forward against the dashboard, but she took no chances and aimed just below his shoulder blade.

The man she had come for sat straight up in the backseat, handcuffed, his face covered with a dark hood. He appeared completely unaffected by the sudden breach in the CIA transfer. He had expected this to happen, expected this transfer to go wrong.

But she had some satisfaction in knowing he didn't expect _her_ to be the one carrying it out.

She entered the back of the vehicle and unhooked him from the built in leg shackles, keeping the handcuffs in place. Taking him by the elbow, she ran with him across the street to her Mercedes and pushed his head down as she helped him into the passenger seat.

She shifted into first and sped down the highway seconds later.

When they were a safe distance away, Sydney removed her mask and pulled off the cloth hood that covered his face, watching him immediately blink to adjust his sight to the bright light of day. As recognition set in, surprise widened eyes that were still slightly swollen and purple from his "interrogation" days prior, but only for the merest of moments. His attention immediately switched to the tiny dart that now stuck out of his shoulder.

"Tranq darts," he mused with a quiet chuckle. "How…" His eyelids twitched slightly and sagged as the sedative spread through his system.

Only when his eyes rolled back and his head lolled carelessly to the side on the headrest did she breathe freely again.

Only many hours later when the Cadillac CTS-V she had commandeered just outside of Vegas rolled smoothly over the tarmac of a small private airport, and she saw the chartered jet readied for her departure, did the knot of tension between her shoulder blades subside some.

And only when Constance Levy and her good for nothing husband, Marcos – who'd passed out when he'd imbibed one too many celebratory cognacs after winning three-hundred grand at craps, then got in a fight with the casino's bouncers – were safely aboard their chartered jet and speeding down the runway did the thundering of her heart fade into a shallow, measured thudding.

She pulled her shoulder length blonde hair back from her face with one hand and secured it with a band as she looked at her "drunken" husband – his bronze face, rich dark brown hair that fell just past his ears, trim black mustache and goatee. Laying flat on his back across two plane seats made the dark suit that took forever to get his unconscious body into appear even more rumpled.

Sydney relaxed against the soft leather chair, replaying the conversation she'd had almost a week ago with her only conspirator in this, thinking about how easy it had been to pull this off with his help.

The plane took off, quickly leaving the ground and the U.S. behind, and only when she was somewhere over the Atlantic did the full weight of what she'd done sit like lead in her gut.

She couldn't go back now.

**Ops**

Her mentor sat stoically across the table from her. The black light he used to read the final page of documentation steadily moved down the paper, revealing the words that had shocked her just days prior.

The mix of sorrow and anger she saw in his eyes, and the grim set of his jaw relieved her. He'd had no idea what the CIA and her father had done to her.

Gently, he placed the light and the papers next to his empty plate. "I didn't know about this, Sydney."

"I know… I mean I'd thought so, Dixon," she answered immediately. "Considering the time frame, my initial assumption was that you didn't. That's partly why I came to you."

He rubbed a rough hand over his face and sighed. "I don't have the power to censure the group that did this, nor would I have the backing to see it stopped." He casually leaned back in his chair. "I'm assuming you're here because you have something else in mind?"

A faint smile played at the corners of her mouth. Besides his rank in the CIA, there was another reason she'd come to him.

She gave him a brief overview of her idea, leaving out certain specific details for his own safety. By the time she'd finished, he was nodding, thinking. It could very well work.

"So the goal is to find Sloane and Nadia, which in turn could lead us to the ultimate plans of Rambaldi. And maybe turn some of this attention away from you."

She took a sip of her green tea and looked at him over the rim, nodding once in answer.

"And you don't have faith that the CIA can reach them first?"

There was no venom in his voice, just a careful quality that came from knowing the team you're working for had slighted one of its most valued members.

"You of all people know how often the Covenant gets a leg up on us, not to mention how slippery Sloane can be. The Covenant's resources are ruthless but can also be quite effective."

"But does that justify releasing a man like him?"

She'd struggled with that, too. "Maybe not if this were sanctioned by the CIA, since there would be strict rules. But if you let _me_ do this, alone, I can make it work. I can control him. And after taking the right precautions, I think he can be an asset to us."

He nodded, contemplating. It could work. Although… "What if I think that with your help, the CIA could hold their own."

Moot point, she thought.

"I just…" she exhaled, shaking her head. "After what they did… God. I can't do this for them anymore. I won't keep on being an easy target for their _research_. They kept track of my _entire life_, Dixon – they are still keeping track of it as we speak. Nearly _everything_ that has happened to me, _everything_ that I've done, is written in that file. It's even worse than the "liberties" I was required to give up while working as an agent for SD-6."

So much worse, she thought, knowing who'd been on board from the get go.

"I thought I could be a part of this even knowing some think it's all part of this prophecy, but I can't. Those papers hit too close to home. And from what I've been told, I can't bring Sloane and Nadia in, can't keep them from finding this device, without some part of this cursed prophecy coming true. If I try, if I end up having to fight my sister…" _both of us will die_, was left unsaid. "So to ensure that the CIA gets what they ultimately want – Sloane and the Rambaldi device – and to also get some semblance of a normal life back, I'll have to do it the next best way. Indirectly.

"You know I can do this, Dixon."

She saw understanding brighten his eyes, saw the point when he gave the silent go ahead to do this. Tears welled in her eyes as she smiled tremulously to show her gratitude.

He reached across the table and lightly squeezed her hand. "I'll announce your decision to leave the CIA tomorrow morning. We'll also meet back here tomorrow evening so I can give you those items you requested. "

The back door slammed shut and she heard the boisterous voices of Steven and Robin entering the house. Dixon stood and greeted both his children with a short hug. After a brief hello to her, the two scrambled out of the room and head toward the living room, their father smiling after them. His expression sobered when he turned back to her.

"It's nowhere near your extent, Sydney, but I feel like a pawn in all this too."

At noon the day following Sark's foiled transfer, a private interoffice memo signed by Marcus Dixon was distributed to the few people directly associated with the operation. Those involved in the prisoner transfer – especially the eight men who'd been hit with the potent tranqs – were disgruntled to learn that the organization that had aided Sark in his escape was still unknown. For the sake of the CIA's reputation, Director Dixon asked for complete discretion in revealing the truths about the situation.

A public memo was distributed shortly after, putting an entirely different spin on how Sark had gotten away.

**Magic**

At 4:25pm CET, a British Airways commercial flight to Brussels made its descent to the runway. All tray tables were secured and seatbacks in their proper upright position when the plane touched down. The passengers inside eagerly peered out the small oval windows, soaking in the heavy traffic of planes and workers. Some travelers pulled out their small books to help translate the informational and welcome signs. All were on the edge of their seats, anxious to get off the plane after what had seemed like an entire day of flight.

Stored on the airline's passenger manifest was the name Sydney Bristow – row 15, seat A. Even though Ms. Bristow's ticket had been collected, and she had been seen entering the gate at LAX to board the plane, seat A in row 15 had sat mysteriously unoccupied the entire flight.

Not that anyone on board had paid enough attention to even think twice about her absence.

Close to the same time, in the private sector of the same airport, a chartered jet arrived carrying Constance and Marcos Levy. Mrs. Levy seemed visibly embarrassed as she emerged from the jet and had to ask one of the men assisting with their baggage to also help carry her husband to the awaiting car.

In her hand, she carried a bottle of twenty-nine year old Brora to the receptacle near the hangar. Shaking her head in disgust, she dropped the near empty bottle of whiskey inside before walking back toward the vehicle, sliding into the driver's seat next to her dead-drunk husband.

After she made it through customs and was driving away, the men who'd assisted her placed empty bets on whether or not she'd been the one who'd given her husband the faint shiner on his eye.

Over an hour later in Antwerp, Constance Levy checked in at the Ambassador Hotel. Once the room she'd reserved for two was procured, she was seen carrying in four pieces of luggage and helping one groggy husband who was barely able to walk inside.

Fifteen minutes later, the front door to the room was bolted shut for the night.

Two hours later, back in Brussels, a slightly flushed Sydney Bristow stepped into the President Norde hotel. She strolled across the light gray marble to the primly dressed older gentleman at the front desk to check in, making polite conversation about the exquisite Grote Markt. The decorative rooftops, the row after row of windows and the quaint shops viewable inside, had all completely drawn her in and before she'd known it, it was past her check-in time. The man chuckled in response, getting caught up in her youthful enthusiasm.

Upon her request, he secured a ticket for the Jacques Brel Expo tomorrow and also arranged for transportation later that evening to the Cirque Royal.

Before heading to her room, she ordered a light dinner from the room service menu, asking for the plate to be sent up as soon as possible. When asked about turndown service, she declined, claiming fatigue from such a long flight.

The man at the front desk watched the young woman head toward the elevators with her one piece of luggage in tow. She'll have a nice, relaxing time here, he thought.

Little did he know that when the elevator door shut behind her, Sydney Bristow was preparing herself for a long string of late nights, double lives and multiple identities, and difficult covert moves. She sighed wearily as she leaned against the elevator wall.

It was all she'd known for years.

**Out**

Sydney saw the exact moment he woke up.

He didn't strain to open his eyes against the moderate light in the room, didn't groan in protest to the headache he must have after being drugged twice with a tranquilizer. He barely even moved one muscle.

The swift and near silent intake of air through his nose, and his body's sudden absolute stillness, stillness that bordered on rigidity, told her that he'd finally come to.

She leaned back in the hotel room's high-backed chair with her arms crossed, watching his form on the bed – face down, cheek snugly pressed against the mattress, his arms laying limply above his head. She waited for the spotty events of the last twenty-four hours to replay in his mind, waited as he tried to take in his current surroundings by only sound and smell, and to come to some conclusion on the severity of the threat around him.

It was what she would be doing were she in his shoes.

He released a sonorous breath seconds later and opened his eyes to mere slits.

"Utterly pathetic," he said, finishing the last statement he'd started to make before passing out in the Mercedes. "And I suppose those CIA agents in your way also woke up hours later feeling as rotten as I do right now."

Sydney didn't answer immediately, didn't move. She watched his eyes shift down to the odd looking rifle next to her, then he looked back at her. He offered little reaction to the weapon, and none to her blonde wig, designer clothing and jewelry, or flawless make up.

"Bullet, tranq, tranq, tranq," she informed him in a neutral tone. _Broken glass, agent, agent, agent._ "Repeated also for the rear vehicle. Specially designed weaponry has such amazing capabilities these days."

"Quite," he agreed drolly.

He lifted his head slightly to rub his face against the sheets, attempting to drag himself completely out of his haze. He winced as he brushed the bruising still decorating his face a little too hard, then, sighing, he lay back down. His eyes were completely open now, blankly looking at her.

"I would offer my gratitude for my release, but I get the distinct feeling you didn't pull this off for my benefit." He emphasized his statement with a slight tug on the handcuffs anchoring him to the bed.

"Never let it be said that Sark doesn't excel in the powers of deduction," Sydney mumbled as she stood, walking over to the nightstand on the other side of the bed. He lifted his head and cautiously watched her as she grabbed a small piece of metal shaped like a capsule and what looked like a remote.

She sat down next to him, holding the small device in her palm. "Do you know what this is?"

His eyes showed that he might, but she continued anyway. "This is a device similar to the ones implanted into the necks of all members of The Alliance when they were around. Among other things, this device tracks the implanted person's whereabouts and vital signs. It also transmits all conversations back to a computer."

He shifted a little uncomfortably on the bed, although his expression was still carefully guarded. "This," she continued, holding up the remote. "Is the detonator. When the right code is entered, the device will combust and release a lethal toxin into the system. The dose is strong enough to paralyze in ten minutes and kill in twenty."

"I assume you're telling me this because I already have one in my neck?" he asked plainly.

"Actually," she replied as she grabbed for a small clear box on the nightstand. "I wanted you to be awake when I implanted it."

"How… thoughtful."

"Not thoughtful at all," she corrected. "Proof. Proof that I did indeed implant the device into your neck. Plus, I want to demonstrate beforehand what will happen when the tracker is detonated."

He watched her place the capsule in the box, next to a small gray mouse. "You know that's completely unnecessary, Ms. Bristow. I'm familiar with that device, and have witnessed what happens when a toxin takes over a body's system."

She glanced at him with a raised brow, then carefully set the box down. "If I even think you're deceiving me, I will set this off. If you ever go under my radar, I will set this off. If you ever fail to relay to me information about the Covenant's actions or about Sloane and Nadia's whereabouts, I will set this off."

"So that's what this is about," he concluded. "The CIA sent you to save them the embarrassment of the Covenant finding Sloane and Nadia first."

She averted her eyes, unable to hide her reaction. When she turned back to him, she saw a bit of humor and surprise banked in his eyes. "The CIA has no idea you're doing this."

"If you reveal the fact that I was behind any of this, to anyone, I will set the device off." Her voice sounded as cold and hollow as her body felt.

He lay silent as she swabbed the back of his neck with alcohol. She took a large syringe from the nightstand and used it to inject the capsule into his neck. A small grunt of pain was heard in the room, followed by more continual silence. She took the remote and the rest of the items left on the table and placed them in a lockable metal case.

Her back was to him as she sat at her computer to activate the device. Once the frequencies matched and the device registered as stable, she asked him to speak to test the voice recorder.

"Lauren told you about the safety deposit box."

Her shoulders stiffened slightly, but she clenched her jaw and kept her mouth shut until she could speak without her voice wavering. _I'll be affected later. _

She finished the set-up and closed her laptop. "Bedfellows make the best gossips, don't they?" she asked, her voice strong and steady. Unaffected.

She dug into her shoulder bag for a tiny set of keys. Moving to the bed, she leaned over his prone body and released one of his hands, then suddenly stopped and sat back.

"Oh, and before I forget. The device will automatically detonate if no vitals are detected in your system – or, for that matter, if there are no vitals detected in mine. And, more importantly, if any part of the capsule even comes into contact with air now that it's activated, it'll blow. Instantly."

He gave her no reaction to that – just eyed her dispassionately and waited for her to release his second hand.

When he was free, he rolled onto his back and rubbed absently at his red-ringed wrists, still regarding her carefully. She moved to the chair she'd occupied earlier and picked up her weapon.

"I'll be moving around with you… most of the time," she told him. "I expect you to meet me at the spots and times I designate without any variation. If you find out pertinent information and I'm not in your immediate area, I expect you to find a secure way to communicate that information to me. Any deviation from the plan –"

"And you'll set the device off," he interrupted, his voice undeniably testy. "Duly noted, Ms. Bristow."

_Good. It's working._

"The CIA is quite embarrassed about your escape. Instead of revealing what really went on to the majority, it's being spread that there was an accident – a tire blowout – and in the midst of all the chaos you disappeared."

The corner of his mouth slanted up as he pushed off from the bed to stand. He didn't ask how she'd found out about the CIA information.

His body faltered just the slightest bit when his feet hit the ground, but he righted himself quickly. She tossed him a black Chase-Durer watch that was equipped with a text and digital readout, not needing to explain what it was for. He regarded the timepiece with an air of indifference, then docilely attached the band to his wrist.

He mentally prepared himself to leave, to take on this forced dual role. Sydney could see it. The squaring of his shoulders, the curt adjustment of the suit jacket he put on. She could imagine the thoughts, the plans that were forming in his mind to somehow get out of this. She also knew short of either or both of their deaths, or maybe job completion, there wasn't one. Smoothing his wrinkled dress shirt and giving his disguised face a cursory glance in the gilded mirror hanging on the wall, he started for the door.

When his hand was wrapped around the knob, he hesitated. "Where are we?" he asked, his back still turned to her.

"Antwerp," she replied, and watched him nod slightly then leave.

Once the room was secured again, she relaxed some. She sat on the bed and leaned back against the headboard, her arms loosely draped over her bent knees. Her head dropped back, gently hitting the cool wood, and she found herself staring at the ceiling with no emotion at all.

He'd known, too. It shouldn't have been so surprising, but it was. Why did it seem like she was always the last one to know things – even the things that pertained to her own life?

She should have been used to it.

It had, after all, always been that way.


	2. Chapter 2

**Raven**

Brussels was moderately cold and rainy in May.

The city of Nice was not.

Two days ago, Sydney Bristow had arrived in France. She'd strolled into the Hotel Beau Rivage after a relatively short flight from Belgium and checked in for a week's stay. She'd been welcomed with open arms by the awaiting staff, including a handsome young bellhop who had eyed her with brazen interest. She'd smiled diffidently in return to his advances, remarking to no one in particular how forward French men could be.

Before her key had been placed in her hand, the concierge had encouraged her to take advantage of the hotel's private beach.

She did.

Most of the time in her first few days in Nice she appeared to be a normal woman in her early thirties vacationing alone. She took time and relaxed on the sunbeds available on the private beach, snorkeled in the pristine turquoise sea, and even spent part of a day venturing through Old Town. She found the time she spent amongst the splendor by herself, especially the little things like beachcombing and the cold tingly feel of sand between her toes, to be quite cathartic.

Her first two nights in Nice brought nothing but dinner, a quick check of the day's happenings on her laptop, and sleep. It was all so oddly simple that she nearly forgot why she was there.

But her third night in France brought about a cold reminder.

The turning point in her stay, she'd reflect later, was when she returned to her room after a long day of basking in the hot Mediterranean sun and listening to the rolling surf pound into the shore. She yanked open the traditional shutters on her windows to reveal the pink-tinted descending sun and freed her hair from the loose twist she'd had it in all day, contemplating a choice of cuisine for dinner. As her fingers were brushing through the damp, tousled strands, the phone in her room rang.

She didn't hesitate to answer.

"Sydney," the terse masculine voice that answered her hello cuts like a knife.

_Betrayer. _

"There are things that I need to explain." His quick, clipped words were seemingly planned. He knew he wouldn't hold her attention for long.

"You don't need to explain anything. I already know enough," she gritted out between clenched teeth.

"I'm sending you some documents –"

"God, like I need to read any more –"

" – some documents that carry important information about your family – about us – that I think you should know. I can overnight them and you'll have them by –"

"No!" she shouted, squeezing her eyes shut as tightly as her hand was gripped on the receiver. No more lies. No more truths. No more.

Her outburst rendered him completely silent. She tried to breathe around the thick pain spreading throughout her chest, up to her throat, and was barely successful. She let out a long, measured breath, attempting to steady the rampant emotions filling her.

"I've suddenly come down with a strong dislike for this hotel, for this city," she told him unemotionally. "I won't be here."

The phone dropped from her hand, smacking hard on the hickory nightstand and bouncing noisily to the floor. In the distance, she could hear the faint garbled sound of a voice coming from the receiver, but she reached around behind the lamp and ripped the cord free from the wall, tossing the wire aside. Moments later, Sydney started blindly stuffing her clothes, her shoes, her necessities, into her suitcase, ignoring the steady stream of tears cascading down both cheeks.

Italian sounded good, she decided, but food was the last thing on her mind.

Once she'd packed, Sydney phoned downstairs from her cell phone, informing them of her abrupt departure tomorrow. The concierge offered her a complimentary meal and bottle of wine as a courtesy, but she declined, politely claiming a family matter had suddenly made her lose her appetite. Before disconnecting with the front desk, she asked to not be disturbed for the remainder of the night and reinforced that by hanging the small placard outside her door.

Less than an hour later, no one saw the dark-haired woman classically dressed in all black descend the back set of stairs and exit through the hotel's back door.

Some time later, fifteen minutes outside of Nice at the Domaine du Diamant Rose, struggling suspense novelist Sofia Lemieux burst through the double doors leading to the hotel's front desk.

Her appearance was quite startling to the man behind the desk, considering that when Ms. Lemieux had checked in three days prior, she'd requested complete solitude with absolutely no disruptions for her entire week's stay. Writer's block, she'd said, with an added expletive that the man preferred not to repeat, even to himself. The hotel known for its tranquility and seclusion had obliged, of course. No quirk was too odd for their valuable patrons.

So since her arrival, the individual suite she'd been using for the week had sat quiet, curtains drawn and windows tightly shut. Until this very moment.

"La vie, c'est belle. Tellement belle!" she exclaimed. Her cheery green eyes were vivid and alight as she breezed into the room like an excitable dark cloud. The short blunt cut that framed her face flew back like raven's wings with each hurried step she took toward the counter.

"You know that bastard thought he could best me, but no! No! No one outsmarts Sofia Lemieux!" she continued in rapid fire French. "Wouldn't you know that that little fucker Ralph tried to beat poor Albert to the glass key that opens the onyx and sapphire box? Hmph. Like a dastardly fellow such as him deserves to take the cake!"

She was a flurry of hands and flapping arms, and her quick-moving legs continually took her in irregular circles around the small room. "That man will rue the day he tried to double cross me!

"Now I will celebrate!" she rejoiced, throwing her hands into the air. "Champagne… no, not champagne. Too bubbly. Vino! Yes!" She stopped in front of the man with wide, dramatic eyes and placed both hands firmly on the oak desk. "And I am sorry to say that I will be leaving in two days time instead of staying out the entire week as planned – so much to do now! But you, your hotel, of course will get your full week's pay!"

She slapped her hands on the sides of his face and pulled him to her, pressing a full kiss to the man's surprised mouth. He blushed when she released him, stammering inarticulately as he tried to inquire if she had any more needs besides the wine and the early check out. A deep red imprint that was similar to the flush of his cheeks messily coated his lips and got smudged onto the back of his hand as he discreetly attempted to wipe it off.

"Non, c'est tout!" she exclaimed with a nonchalant wave of a hand as she left in the same swift and peculiar manner that she'd appeared.

The man reached for his handkerchief once she was gone, blotting the remainder of the lipstick off his lips. The thin white cloth also kept the empty room from seeing the small smile that was on his face. What a ball of energy, that woman.

Patrons come and they go at this hotel, he thought later as he walked through the potent darkness that had abruptly descended over the elite hills in the outskirts of Nice. He entered the door of the cabin that hosted her individual suite and absently straightened his suit as he relived the passionate kiss she'd thrown upon him earlier. He stopped his fidgeting, properly made his face blank and knocked once on her door.

One thing that kept those patrons coming back, he reminded himself, was the knowledge that what happened at the Domaine du Diamant Rose, stayed here.

**Licorice**

She should have stayed here instead of in the city, Sydney mused, shaking the last few drops of wine from her glass onto her tongue. The crisp aftertaste of her fourth glass was quite pleasing, lingered succulently in her mouth long after her glass was set aside. The aftereffects of an unnecessary phone call still remained as well, _burned_, but were steadily being nudged aside with each drop of liquid escape.

She should have stayed here.

The room smelled musty, stale with the surefire effects of being kept closed up for a period of days. The overlay of recycled air and the sharp cloying scent of a fresh bottle of wine mixed disgustingly with the warm, dank breeze now wafting in from outside. One whiff probably would have made her nauseous if that same oversweet scent of Barbaresco Vanotu hadn't been filling her nostrils, invading her mouth, clouding her overworked mind.

Although, she thought as she clumsily poured a bit more wine into her glass, sitting in a room with a hint of stuffiness still clinging tenaciously to it was certainly better than receiving an insulting phone call out of the blue. Especially when said phone call came with the prospect of receiving even more offensive papers in the mail the next day.

But she didn't want to think about any of that. She didn't want to remember awful fathers who didn't think twice about betraying their daughters to the CIA or employers who put daughters' fathers in that very position. She wanted things to be simple tonight. All she wanted to do was drink her wine and get ready to meet her contact.

Her contact. A quick squint at the antique clock on the mantle reminded her that the time was steadily approaching. She sucked the red she'd spilled onto her hand while pouring it and turned in the chair she'd been in for over an hour now, looking at herself in the mirror.

Even through the make-up she'd put on to perform as Sofia she could see the faint dark circles and slight puffiness that reminded her of things best forgotten. She grabbed for her best concealer and, along with a last gulp of wine, worked at forgetting.

Sydney was still sitting at her vanity mirror, making the last few adjustments to her black wig, when she caught a slight movement out of the corner of her eye. She stilled with her fingers on a newly inserted bobby pin and tried to focus on the ghostly reflection that appeared suddenly behind her, having to blink to clear her eyes of the wine haze. She lowered her hands, smoothing her wig down in the process, and attempted to keep the nonplussed feeling at seeing him in the room she'd acquired with her alias from showing on her face.

She could only hope that he fell for it.

His appearance was rash, dangerous, _so like him_. She tried to maintain the air of authority she'd had over him since Brussels. Needed to. But a quiet niggling in the back of her mind told her that with his expertise, her stiff body language had already given her edginess away. Her mind also told her that if he were to quickly glance at the near empty bottle of Vanotu sitting next to a recently used glass, he'd know something much more detrimental about her condition.

Her hands formed steady fists. _I can control him._

"You're early," she said blandly to his unmoving reflection. "And you're at the wrong location. The message I sent said the Musée de la Castre at 11pm." She moves to stand, keeping one hand on the oak table for balance, and faced the dark shadow standing just within the double doors that led to her room's patio. The beige curtains waved carelessly in the breeze behind him, strangely looking like pale fingers caressing his backside.

"I distinctly remember saying something about no variation from the plans and times I designate."

His body appeared poised; both his hands were elegantly placed in the pockets of his flowing black pants. His calm composure was only slightly fractured by the muscle that jumped in his jaw at her words.

"I don't like to be toyed with, Sark."

Keeping him in her peripheral, Sydney walked to the small metal case she kept with her at all times, not aware of how slow or unsteady her steps were. Boldly, she traced the electronic lock on the outside of the case, her sharp gaze sluing to him for effect.

She wondered for a fleeting moment why she felt the need to do this, to remind him. Overcompensation for the lack of control she felt at the moment, she wondered at first. Then, Nah. This was simply a show, a reminder that even though he'd found her, she was still the one wielding the power.

"You're drunk," he said in a biting tone.

A small, cold smile formed on her face, her expression contorting over his audacity to bring up anything but the business at hand, the business he'd forced on her by coming here. She shook her head and elaborated before she remembered that she wasn't the one answering to him.

"Slightly, but blissfully inebriated," she lied. "May I, once again, commend you on such superior intelligence?"

She wasn't aware that he was coming toward her until he'd crossed nearly half the distance between them in long, determined strides. Her eyes widened imperceptibly, her slim shoulders automatically straightening as she fully faced him. Her body shifted to hide the case behind her, and she hoped that he wouldn't make her use what was inside it.

She blinked hurriedly as he approached, wondering when exactly the room had gotten so blurry, so chaotic and literally improbable with its rippling beige walls and wobbling oak bedposts. And its two-headed Sarks.

Shit.

Her attention shifted back to him in time for her to really see how much his control was slipping. His lips formed a thin pink line, and his shoulders had stiffened enough to flex the taut muscle above his collarbone.

Good. If he kept being angry, he'd screw up. And God knew she could use all the leverage against him she could get right now. Her grip tightened on the case, and only the knowledge that if he hurt her she didn't even need what was inside, kept her from punching in the numerical series that unlocked the case and allowed her to retrieve the remote.

She was surprised when he stopped more than a few feet away, his head tilted speculatively to the side to eye her closely. "From the looks of those bags under your eyes, Ms. Bristow, I'd say 'blissfully' is rather incongruous."

Sydney laughed pithily, a bitter sound to even her own ears. "What do _you _know about happiness? Well, other than the joy you receive from the money offered when you sell yourself to the highest bidder."

He moved closer still, stopping a foot away from her, his eyes narrowed. She could feel the anger pulsing off of him.

"Do you think this is a game, Ms. Bristow?" he asked, the sliver of blue showing lit in pure fury. "Do you find it amusing that I'm required to jump to the task every time you tell me to?" He pressed closer, his breath hitting hot against her face. "I am not your quarry in this. Remember that. I am also not a source of entertainment. I'm putting my life on the line for you – and not by choice."

"And not for money, either," she bit back, lifting her chin regally. "It has to kill you to know that you're getting no monetary gain out of this."

They stared at each other, wary, waiting. She could see the need to lash out at her on his face, in the tensing of his arms and legs. Anything to usurp control and make this predicament she'd forced him into work to his advantage.

It was futile, Sydney thought, just as the strained muscles in his shoulders started to relax and lay flat again.

"Not everything is about money, Ms. Bristow," he replied curtly.

"So says the man wearing the designer suit."

He stepped away from her, shoving a stiff hand through his short hair – and she could finally breathe again. The quiet sigh he released when his back was facing her sounded a bit more exasperated than furious. It hit so close to home that she nearly broke down.

The room started to clear before her eyes and her grip loosened on the case, leaving her with achy, bloodless fingers.

I can control him.

"Argentina," he said to break the silence. "My plane leaves tonight at 11:15 and I plan to be in Córdoba for at least two weeks."

Tossing a silver disc on her dining table, he proceeded to the double doors. He didn't pause, didn't leave her with a parting caustic remark, he just walked silently out the ground level doors through which he came. The stark darkness that usually sat heavily in these more remote parts ensconced him soon after he stepped outside – and then he was gone.

Fatigue pressed down on her once the patio doors were shut and secured behind him. Sydney walked past the disc on the table, taking note of the rainbow glint that seemed to be winking at her, taunting her from every angle. She ignored it, instead focusing on the residual repulsion from every single thing that had gone wrong that day, feeling it like a fist tightening in her gut.

She sat at the vanity again, one arm clutching her stomach. After some time passed, she poured just enough wine to fill the bottom of the glass with deep ruby. She took a generous drink, hoping it'd ease the pain, the tension, the guilt, but it did none of those. The too warm, too exposed liquid tasted bitter in her mouth when she'd thought it would be sweet.

Like tasting black licorice when expecting red, she mused as she lazily rolled onto the bed.

She reached for the bedside lamp, extinguishing the light with a quick snap. Wrapped in sudden darkness, she found herself staring unemotionally at the nothingness above her.

She should have been concerned that he'd found her, should have been worried about this sudden move to South America, should have been sitting at her computer with that disc he'd left and scanning the information. Lifting the light coverlet, she slid between the cool sheets and settled in for the night.

She should also have been concerned with how long it would take for that other person in her life to find her again, to call or send this information he thought she should have. But her eyelids were falling shut before she could form a better plan to avoid him.

She shouldn't stay here, was her last thought before she lost consciousness – the Hotel Beau Rivage was expecting Sydney Bristow to check out before 10AM.

But she stayed anyway.

**Oil**

There was a newly purchased postcard in her purse that read: 'Bienvenido a Buenos Aires, la capital cultural de Sudamérica!'

Full of contrasts and culture and wondrous color, the large city seemed to be more alive than she remembered. The verve was almost contagious.

The June mornings were slightly chilly. Sydney still woke by seven to run, as was her routine back home, even though she was supposed to be on vacation. The cool end of the fall season generated a thin layer of frost early in the day, the shiny crystals that appeared on the foliage and spread across the sidewalk made the path under her feet appear to be paved with diamonds.

Her second night, she took the Delta del Tigre tour. As she cruised on the small boat, the city lights sparkled against the dark night, casting a dazzling reflection on the water. Later that same night, she strolled by Café Tortoni, sneaking a peek at the couples that could dance the tango to perfection.

There was a carefree smile on her face hours later when she slid between the sheets of her bed and fell asleep for the night.

On her third day in the beautiful city, as she was walking through the lobby of her hotel, the concierge stopped her.

"A package arrived today for you, senorita," he said as he walked to her from behind the counter, large envelope in hand. "Arrived by courier about an hour ago and is marked 'urgent'."

Sydney took one glance at the envelope and her heart sank. He'd found her. Again. The man tried to give her the package, but she took a step away from it as if what was in his hand was lethal. Confusion knitted his brow and he slowly lowered his hand.

She found her voice, barely. "Please, send it back. Tell the courier that I left before I could collect it." Stepping back, her eyes fixed warily on the envelope, she added, "As a matter of fact, I _am_ leaving. I'll be down within the hour to settle my bill."

His mouth opened slightly to question her, but he promptly closed it shut. He answered her instead with a curt nod and watched her turn and leave, her gait noticeably a bit more hurried than when she'd walked through the front doors.

True to her statement, Sydney was dragging her suitcase out the lobby doors less than an hour later.

**Of Night**

She felt like she was floating somewhere between sleep and consciousness. Her arms felt leaden against the soft mattress, her body too. She drifted aimlessly through the fuzzy darkness, numb and cold, and so tired of it all that she nearly gave in to the dead sleep her mind and body craved. But then a sudden change in the atmosphere around her pushed her straight into consciousness.

Heart pounding, Sydney came awake with her Sig in her hand and instantly had it aimed at the lone chair in her hotel room. The chair now occupied. Her shock ebbed to caution, then turned to irritation once he spoke.

"Your reaction time seems a bit off, Ms. Bristow. Maybe you should work on that."

His hands were held up to show he wasn't armed, fingers uniformly splayed, giving him an air of innocence that was laughable at best. His gaze shifted to the half empty bottle on the small dining table before moving back to her. "Or maybe simply limiting your wine intake would be sufficient," he added with a touch of humor.

The Catena Malbec she'd drank before bed had fermented in her mouth. Each swallow she took tasted foul, and it felt as if the empanada she'd eaten last night had since curdled in her stomach. She dabbed at the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand, feeling the minute amount of spittle transfer to her skin.

Letting out a heavy breath, she languidly rose onto one elbow in the bed. "What do you want, Sark?"

He calmly placed one hand on each knee, purposely continuing to show her that he was no threat to her. Sighing again, she placed the safety back on her gun and set it down on the mattress in front of her. He relaxed some, and she noticed a hint of a smile hovering at the corners of his mouth. She brought a hand to her forehead, crunching bangs that were sticking out like little spikes, and then self-consciously shoved them aside.

She looked at him expectantly, urging him with a bland look to get on with it.

"You tired of Buenos Aires that quickly?" he asked. Narrowing her eyes, she opened her mouth to reply but then quickly shut it. Instead, she shifted on the bed to sit up, careful to keep an eye on him and a hand near her weapon.

"When are you leaving and what have you got for me?" she asked curtly.

The corner of his mouth quirked up at her obvious evasion of the question and he took his time in answering. "Tomorrow. And there are reports that a lab was broken into and destroyed in Kenya."

"And?" she prompted.

He pushed to stand and casually slid his hands into his pockets. "And this particular lab was deciphering a piece of the code that Nadia had transcribed as a young girl. A piece that was somehow saved all those years ago."

She nodded in response and watched him walk to the door.

"You know this appearing act of yours is merely an attempt to grapple for some control here." The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them.

He turned around and raised a brow, then shifted his attention to the auburn wig laying on the table. Pointedly, he scanned the length of her on the bed. She resisted the urge to pull the sheet higher.

"Maybe," he replied a moment later, then quietly pushed the sliding door open. "And maybe you're leaning heavily on the spirits because your grasp on control is equivalent to mine."

"My grasp is… I'm not leaning on–" Her sputtered words went unheard as first the strong wind and then the closed glass door drowned out the sound.

" – anything."

She dropped onto her back with a frustrated groan, sinking down into the mattress. It didn't matter. It wasn't like she needed to explain her life to him anyway.

Void

Hot and humid, and extremely wet in June, Taipei made her feel miserable.

It could have been the heat and the way her clothes stuck to her right as she stepped out the front door of her hotel – from either rain or humidity, or most days both. It could have been the smell of the rush of bodies saturating the narrow streets and sidewalks that hit her during her daily trips out – the scent of soiled bodies sometimes nearly as rotten as the wilted, steaming vegetation and muddied earth.

But it was more likely the fact that just being in this city brought her back to many years ago and another discovered betrayal by someone she'd loved.

_"Mom?"_

Sydney sucked in a quick, startled breath as she whipped her head around to look over her shoulder, not entirely sure the voice was in her head. There was nobody there.

Huddled into the light jacket she wore, she shook her head and continued to walk along Hankou Street, trying to get a grip on herself.

She had taken all precautions when she'd left her hotel – and, just over an hour following, when she'd left the room rented under the name Gabrielle Martinez. She'd donned yet another disguise, doubled back over her route just to ensure no one was tailing her, but yet still didn't quite feel secure.

Shadows in the dark corners of alleys began to turn into people. People who were outwardly disinterested in her turned into agents who'd been sent on clandestine ops to follow her, watching her every move just to have something to report back to the CIA. It was an awful feeling, this paranoia, ridiculous, but she couldn't seem to shake it off.

At 2 A.M. it was eighty degrees and raining – _always_ raining here, it seemed. But in the sleeves of her jacket, her hands were numb, achy. Even her movements felt cold, mechanical, something remarkable considering the summer heat still pulsating like something alive and angry in the early morning air.

Then again, that bone-deep chill had absolutely nothing to do with the weather.

He'd found her. Again. Tonight.

In every single city she'd visited since Buenos Aires, there had been a package waiting for her. Sure, it had taken a few days each time – except for in Paris where she'd only stayed one night and most of the following day – but a package, nonetheless, had ended up waiting for her.

There had to be a way to keep him from finding her, she thought, the frustration and bitterness she felt still curling in her stomach.

She could stay in disguise the entire time. Sydney Bristow could drop off the map for a little while and he'd probably only think she was doing a better job at hiding. But the last thing she wanted him to do was discover what she was doing. How she was doing this.

Who she was using to do this.

She stepped inside the weather and time beaten warehouse, her right hand automatically tightening on the gun she'd grabbed by pure instinct. Large drops of water falling from the rafters mixed with the constant rain that found such easy infiltration in the roofless building; the bold drops continued to pierce her with unnoticed force as she stepped over the debris covered ground.

He moved out of the heavy shadows and, smartly, had both hands held out in front of him.

Sydney lowered her gun and continued forward, keeping as much distance between them as possible. Her gun at her side, she casually absorbed him – clad entirely in black, the same color umbrella in his hand keeping his pale hair and face neat and dry. He did the same, she was sure, but she couldn't quite find the energy to care.

If he noticed her sodden clothing and hair, the dark smudges beneath her eyes or the red in them that nearly overpowered the white, he didn't make mention of them.

"I'm leaving for Panama in a few hours," she spoke with no emotion. "You need to find business nearby."

Besides a slight raise of his brow, he gave no response to her command.

"I expect you to be close by on one of the opposing continents in two days."

For a moment he continued to appear as still as stone, not intending to reply. She shifted on her feet and opened her mouth to demand compliance when his words beat hers.

"You're proposing I drop my current gainful employment and then just leave."

"Yes," she replied. No, it wasn't as ridiculous as he made it sound.

"That's quite inconspicuous," he answered caustically.

She sighed and angrily shoved the strands of her wet wig back from her face. "You're not an amateur. Make it inconspicuous."

The war of wills this time was much shorter than last, she noticed. Resentment still tightened his body, his face, but in the end he made no effort to refute her.

After a briefer silence than she envisioned, Sark took a few steps toward her and the exit. She expected him to brush right past her and leave, but to her surprise he stopped – shoulder to shoulder.

Without even glancing at her, he spoke with a hint of perturbation in his voice. "Is your strategy to die of the pneumonia?"

She looked at his profile, blinking in obvious confusion. "What?"

"Christ," he muttered roughly under his breath. Shoving his umbrella into her hands, he quickly walked through what was beginning to turn into a downpour, toward the door she'd entered through minutes before.

"Take better care of yourself, Ms. Bristow," Sark snapped a moment later over his shoulder. "If I'm going to die, I surely don't want it to be because you've lost your will."

Stunned, Sydney could only watch him go. Her hand, uncomfortable and stiff around the curved handle, flexed painfully as a shiver coursed through her. Suddenly she could feel every drop of water that had soaked into her sagging clothing and hung in her wig. It all seemed so heavy, so exasperating, that she almost couldn't move.

But she needed to. She needed to leave.

Water squished in her saturated boots as she left the building, but her attention was mainly on the burning sensation in her eyes, the constant need she had to sniff and rub at her nose, and this odd pain in her chest.

Damn tropical countries and their storms, she instantly thought.

Only close to an hour later when she was in Gabrielle Martinez's room again did she admit the true origins of the burning eyes and itching nose. She leaned against the back of the door, tired of the pain, the hiding, tired of being so alone.

She wiped the wetness off her cheek with the back of her shaky hand and, after pushing away from the door, removed her coat. Draping it carelessly over the chair, she reached for her wig next and slid it off, placing it next to the coat.

And, as she glanced at the delivery she'd received earlier that still sat on her table, she realized she was mostly tired of those who had a vested interest in her.


End file.
